Speed the Collapse
by Charlotte88
Summary: In which Harry is broken but Nikki's the one who needs saving. (Angsty multi-chap. Set post-'Bloodlines'.)
1. i

_Oh look, I've done something stupid and started writing again. A multi-chap, no less. But the idea has been bugging me for a few days, so this morning I sat down before work and churned this out. It's going to be angsty, I warn you now. While I haven't written much more than this yet, I know exactly where I'm going with it, so updates should be fairly regular (but this is me and you know what I'm like)._

_Also, I just want to take this opportunity to say THANK YOU SO MUCH for all your positive feedback for 'and still, the darkness comes'. I have never had so many reviews for a single oneshot before and it really overwhelmed me. So this is for you guys, for each and every one of you who continues to be amazing and supportive and wonderful. You sexy things._

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**Speed the Collapse**

**i.**

Our story begins in a hotel room. A hotel room in Budapest. A hotel room in Budapest where two people, a battered man and woman, seek comfort in the mere presence of each other.

_But we'll get to that. _

First, we must journey into another room, one floor down and six rooms across. The room that Professor Leo Dalton checked into when this whole mess started. And we'll continue from there.

For some reason, Leo still can't stop his hands shaking. It's been hours since they got Harry back. Hours since he breathed a long-withheld sigh of relief that he wasn't sure would ever come. And yet, his fingers tremble as they put down the hotel telephone. Sitting beside him on the bed, Nikki Alexander asks quietly, "What did the Coroner say?"

For a second, Leo seems startled by her voice. As if he's forgotten she was even there. Then he relaxes, scrubbing a hand over his weary face. "She's given us another few days."

Nikki nods. "Good. That's good. Because I don't think he's ready to go home yet."

"I couldn't be _more_ ready to go home," Leo mumbles, but his mind wanders to the room upstairs, Nikki's room, where he'd all but carried Harry after the police were done questioning him. "Was he sleeping when you came down here?"

"I wouldn't call it sleep, more unconsciousness. He's been awake for god knows how many days - I think it was more that his body physically couldn't carry on."

"It's late," Leo reminds her. "Maybe _you_ should be sleeping. I could go down to reception and get another room?"

Vehemently shaking her head, Nikki says, "No. I'm going to stay with him. I slept a little on the plane, I'll be fine."

His eyebrows raised, Leo counters, "Nikki, that plane journey was thirty-six hours ago. Get some sleep."

So her departing words to Leo are a promise that she will (though they both know that's a lie) and an agreement to meet in the restaurant for breakfast the next morning, with or without Harry.

When she gets back to her room, she finds that Harry has consumed half of the minibar.

He's sitting on the end of the bed surrounded by miniature liqueur bottles, his head tipped back as he empties a Jack Daniels. Nikki's hesitant, not sure what to do. He's still wearing the bloody, torn clothing he stole from another man. The paramedics did little to clear the blood from his face, and the still-raw bullet wound in his thigh causes him to wince with every movement.

"Maybe you should have a shower," she suggests meekly. Her eyes dart to his suitcase in the corner that the police had dropped off for them a couple of hours ago. "Get that blood off, wash out your wounds. Put some nice clean clothes on."

But either Harry isn't listening or he isn't interested, because he does nothing except twist the lid off another bottle.

"Harry..."

"For god's sake, leave me alone!" he roars, and she freezes. He's refusing to meet her eye, but she can see anger practically radiating off him in waves.

Reeling, she tries and fails not to be affronted. "I'm trying to help."

"Yeah, well don't," he barks. "Does it look like I need your help? You should never have come."

And wow, that stings. She tries to remind herself that he's in shock, that he's been through so much, that he doesn't know what he's saying. As she gapes at him, her eyes swimming, he abruptly gets to his feet.

"Maybe I will take that shower. Anything to get a bit of peace."

He storms into the bathroom, slamming the door closed behind him with a resounding bang that shakes the walls.

Nikki feels at a loss as to what to do. For a moment she considers calling Leo, but then realises that he might well be asleep by now. Autopilot kicks in and she tidies up instead. Collecting the empty bottles from the bed and the floor, dropping them into the bin. She straightens the sheets and the pillows; a pointless action that she knows is only going to be undone in a few minutes.

When she's satisfied, she crosses to the uncomfortable armchair in the corner of the room and curls into it, pulling her knees up under her chin.

The next half an hour passes very slowly. Even the sound of the heavy stream of water isn't enough to mask Harry's sobs. She doesn't know if it's the pain or exhaustion or something else entirely that's causing them. Probably all three. It doesn't really matter; it still makes her feel like something is tearing her lungs in half.

Eventually the water shuts off and silence falls. A horrible, deafening silence that lasts for far too long. Nikki begins picturing things, terrible things, things she sees on a daily basis, and has just worked herself up enough to the point where she's considering going in there when the door opens.

Harry looks so much better when he emerges that she almost forgets why she is feeling permanently sick. But then she spots the little things and it all becomes real again. Despite his face being mercifully free from other people's blood, his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. He's still unshaven, but there's nothing new there. His limp seems more noticeable than before, every muscle in his body taut with pain each time he moves. His thin grey t-shirt doesn't hide the bruises on his arms, the scrapes on his knuckles.

"Are you feeling any better?" she asks his back as he unceremoniously stuffs the clothes he had been wearing into the bin. But he doesn't reply, and she didn't really expect him to. Instead he climbs into bed, collapsing against the mattress and pulling the covers tightly around him. He doesn't even bother to remove his jeans. With a small sigh, she unfurls herself from the chair and flicks off the lights, leaving only a small, dim lamp on. Then she takes a blanket from the end of the bed, ignoring the way Harry's feet reflexively move away from her, and resumes her previous position.

She wants to stay awake all night. Even after Harry's breathing eventually evens out, she wants to stay awake. Her ears remain alert, listening for any signs of him waking, but none come. Occasionally he murmurs something indecipherable, and he tosses and turns a lot, but he doesn't stir.

Nikki's too restless to sleep anyway. Too hot with the blanket, too vulnerable without it. In the end she compromises, rolling up the sleeves of the thin long sleeved top she'd changed into before going down to see Leo and covering only her legs with the blanket. Inevitably, exhaustion takes her eventually. Leo was right: she hasn't closed her eyes in nearly two days and she feels it. Even her bones ache.

When she wakes a couple of hours later, she forgets where she is. Then she hears what woke her, and a gut-wrenching anxiety grips her very soul. Harry is screaming. Loudly. The sheer terror in his voice is plain, and it somehow infuses the same fear into her. In seconds, she's on her feet bending down beside the bed, trying to rouse him. He's dragged back into consciousness with a shuddering gasp that rattles his lungs and doesn't sound at all healthy. The dim light reflects in his wide, green eyes and for a second he looks manic, insane.

"Harry!" she calls, as he seemingly stares right through her, breathing heavily, still lost to whatever horrors had been pervading his mind. "Harry, it's okay. It's me!"

Finally, his eyes focus on her face. His brows knit in confusion. "Nikki?"

Gently, she places a hand on his arm. "You're okay."

Relief floods his face as he seems to realise where he is. "Nikki," he murmurs. "Nikki."

She gives him what she hopes is a reassuring smile, but his fingers scrabble at her forearms, his nails scraping her skin painfully, and she falters. But there's desperation in his watery gaze, not malicious intent, and she realises that he's reaching for her, trying to bring her close. So she lets him.

With only slight hesitation, she climbs into bed beside him. Immediately his arms are bringing her closer still, pulling her flush against him from ankle upwards. He relaxes almost immediately, the relief noticeable in his posture, the way his arms go limp and heavy around her, the way his nose finds the crook of her neck. For a brief, terrifying moment Nikki wonders if perhaps in his inebriated confused state he thinks she is Anna, and the idea repulses her. But then he murmurs her name again, all breathy as his lips brush her shoulder, and her fears are assuaged. Gently, she presses her mouth to his hairline, whispering meaningless words and phrases of comfort that they both know aren't making the slightest bit of difference.

One of his legs hooks over hers, and while personal space (or lack thereof) has never been an issue with them, in this moment Nikki feels slightly overwhelmed. It's as if he's trying to be as close to her as it's physically possible to be. Every inch of their bodies is touching. They're both still wearing their jeans, the fabric rough as he scrapes his knee over her shin. The friction is enough to cause her to gasp quietly, although she's not sure why.

What she is sure of, however, is that Harry's rough, calloused hand should not be making its way under her top like that. An irrepressible shiver tickles her spine as his fingers come to rest on the soft, warm skin of her back, just below the fastening of her bra. She murmurs his name in warning, maybe, but his hot breaths (is he crying?) have travelled to below her earlobe now and his intent couldn't be any clearer. They're impossibly close, yes, but what's the one sure-fire way of getting even closer?

Nikki makes several attempts to stop him. Weak, half-hearted attempts, but she tries nonetheless. This is wrong and inappropriate on so many levels. Harry isn't okay, and you know what? Neither is she. Both of them have been unimaginably screwed up by the past week, both of them are sleep-deprived and hungry, and Harry's more than a little bit drunk.

"We can't do this," she murmurs, and how the hell did her hands find their way into his hair?

His response is to nuzzle into her neck again, nipping slightly at her collarbone, his stubble scratching her skin. There's wetness there, too, and she's certain now that he's crying. And her resolve that this should be stopped is even stronger.

"Harry-"

"Please. Please, Nikki, I am _begging_ you. Let me, let _us_, have tonight. _Please_?" His voice is rough and unexpected. The desire in it, the unyielding anguish, the edge of conviction, is all it takes to convince her. Convince her that yes, this is a fucking terrible idea - but they're going to do it anyway.

When he rolls his hips against her own, she forgets how to breathe. Which is a stupid thing for a scientist to say - breathing is innate, it can't be forgotten. And yet here she is, unable to do so. It isn't until Harry's hand strays a little further, around to her front, that she gasps.

There is something about this so wrong, so forced and unnatural. But only slightly. Because mostly it feels so _right_, so very long overdue. It's maybe not how Nikki imagined it - certainly she pictured less tears, and his groans wouldn't be mingled with quiet sobs, and he wouldn't be clutching at her so desperately to the point where it almost hurts - but she's so overcome with relief that he's okay, that he's here and he's alive, when she thought he was gone forever, that she doesn't mind the roughness.

It takes a long time, but finally his lips find her cheek, inching ever closer to her mouth. She senses his hesitation, almost as if he's scared that the difference between using her to get off and actually kissing her is too great. But she needs this as much as he needs the former. She craves the emotional connection of a kiss - and then it occurs to her that maybe that's what he's afraid of.

His lips chase hers with butterfly-light pecks, and if she thought he had it in him she might suggest that he was teasing her. But finally she can take it no more and grabs his head, angling it down towards her, crashing her mouth into his. His moan is low and guttural, vibrating through her entire being. It's only then that she realises they're both still fully clothed. But the rubbing of denim against denim causes her to ache with a kind of longing she hasn't felt in a while, until she becomes too impatient and uses fumbling fingers to pop open the button on his jeans.

What happens next is all a bit of a blur. An imperfect, messy, confusing, dizzying blur. And yet it's so wonderful, she can't keep the grin off her face. And afterwards, when Harry's slumped against her, his weight comforting rather than restricting, he actually smiles too. Just slightly. It's a smile of thanks, a smile of apology, a smile of lust and satisfaction all rolled into one. But the simple fact that he is able to smile at all is encouraging.

Nikki's eyes are already starting to close, her fingers lost in Harry's newly shortened hair, his breath warm and gentle as he noses into her neck again. They're still wearing all their clothes, having simply removed what was necessary for as long as was necessary. It's a little strange, seeing how they were so intimate such a short time ago, but she guesses that the removal of clothes is a wall he just isn't ready to let fall yet. She knows he won't sleep tonight, that he needs this closeness too much to simply sleep through it, but he's more relaxed and at ease than he was, and for that she's grateful.

Should she have said no, resisted his advances? Probably. But for now she doesn't even care.

What she doesn't realise is that in a simple matter of days, she'll be wishing to god that this had _never_ happened.

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**_I guess you could call this AU, in that I'm pretty much ignoring everything that happened immediately after 'Bloodlines' that doesn't fit with where I'm going with this. _**

**_Oh, and this chapter is positively FLUFFY compared to what's coming. You're not going to like it. I'm going to be so mean to Harry. And Nikki, actually. Probably Leo, too. Maybe I have some unresolved Silent Witness feels..._**

**_Any thoughts/comments/opinions? _**

**_Charlotte xxx_**


	2. ii

_Thank you so much for all the reviews! They encouraged me to get this next chapter up in record time for you all. Enjoy!_

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**ii.**

When Nikki cracks open an eye the next morning only to be blinded by the glorious golden light of sunrise, Harry is kissing her shoulder again. For a split second she wonders if she's dreaming, but then her memory comes flooding back.

She murmurs his name much as she had done the previous night, but it serves to do nothing but encourage him; his kisses become more persistent, his hips pressing into her back. She bucks into him instinctively, reflexively, biting her lip to prevent a groan. What's happening here? What they did mere hours ago was supposed to be the only thing they did; seeking solace in each other for a short while. There wasn't supposed to be a follow-up the next morning.

This is borderline insanity, she thinks as she momentarily allows herself to concede defeat. His fingers are teasing the band of her jeans and, oh god, it would be so easy to give in. What they did last night has woken something within her, a hunger for more. To be honest it's not like she hasn't felt this before, this yearning for him. And under normal circumstances she wouldn't think twice about letting him do what he's doing - but these aren't normal circumstances.

He doesn't talk as he kisses his way up her jaw. In fact, she's a little concerned to realise that he hasn't said a word since his desperate pleas the night before. Not that either of them require words; it's quite clear what he wants, what he needs.

And it's this thought alone that relaxes her. If this is something that is going to help him, make him feel better, then who is she to deny him that?

_Excuses excuses_, her psyche taunts, as she finally gives in to Harry's ministrations.

He falls asleep afterwards, so quickly it's as if someone has flicked a switch. Even in sleep he doesn't look at peace; his face is creased and crumpled in what looks like frustration.

Quietly as possible, Nikki extracts herself from under his arm and slips out of bed. She sways slightly on the spot, her knees weak, pressing her hand to her forehead to steady herself, still coming down from the high. But she has to meet Leo for breakfast in half an hour, and hell, she needs a shower. So she lets her hand fall to her jeans, where she refastens the button, before grabbing some fresh clothes from her bag and heading into the bathroom.

Nikki stands and gazes at herself in the mirror for quite some time before she showers, and comes quickly to the conclusion that she looks bloody awful. Her eyes are red with exhaustion, her lips sore and swollen. There are tiny purple marks forming along her neck and clavicle, which she knows she won't be able to hide. And, most worryingly of all, there are the bruises accompanying the scratches on her arms.

Part of her is ashamed. She's far too old for a hickey, much less a dozen of them. But there's a tiny little flicker of her that almost likes what they represent: Harry, claiming her, leaving his mark on her. _Harry_. She shuts these thoughts down quickly.

When she emerges from the bathroom a little while later, she's relieved to see that the noise of the hairdryer hasn't woken him. In fact, he's dead to the world. So still and so quiet, that she feels the need to go over to him and hold a finger under his nose to check that, yes, he is still breathing. Embarrassed by her own stupidity, Nikki hastily scrawls him a note explaining where she is and slips out of the room.

Leo's already sitting at a table when she enters the restaurant-slash-breakfast-room, reading the newspaper with an expression of distaste. On the table in front of him is a steaming pot of coffee and a rack of toast, which she makes a beeline for gratefully. He couldn't have picked a nicer spot, really; a small table away from the crowd, beside the open French doors. But Nikki's not really in the mood to appreciate the finer things in life. She tugs up the collar of her blouse and lets her loose curls fall over her shoulders, hoping it hides any evidence of what happened last night. Then she walks over to her boss.

"You look awful," he comments as she slumps into the chair opposite him.

"I could say the same about you," she retorts, because he really does look a decade older than he did when he left London.

"Rough night?" he asks, and she has to swallow hard.

"You could say that."

Leo closes the newspaper and hands it to her, tapping the headline. "We made the front page again."

Nikki pushes away the pictures of Harry and Anna's faces emblazoned under the bold headline in a language she can't read.

"At least it's the truth this time," he adds with a sigh, dropping the paper to the floor under his chair.

"Don't let Harry see it," she says, sipping her coffee and savouring the buzz of the caffeine.

Leo's frown deepens. "How is he?"

"Oh, he's just peachy," she bites sarcastically, regretting it immediately at the look on Leo's face. "Sorry. It was, as you said, a rough night."

"What happened?"

She sighs, unsure of which details to include and which not to. In the end she settles for a censored version of events, telling Leo everything except for the, y'know, part where they had sex. And if Leo suspects anything he doesn't let on.

"He was sleeping when I left. Mind you I said that last night," she amends, as she chews on a slice of toast that has the texture of carpet.

Leo exhales deeply through his nose, his eyes fluttering closed as he presses his fingertips to his forehead. "How do we help him, Nikki? What do we do?"

Nikki isn't used to Leo sounding so helpless. Normally he's the stable one, the one with all the answers. She doesn't like it in the slightest. As if _she's_ supposed to know what to do.

"I don't think we _can_ help," she confesses quietly.

"Well, there's something I can do," he realises. "I can get him some travel documents sorted, so that he's ready to go as soon as he's, well, ready to go."

With a nod, she says, "Okay. I'm going to spend the day with him. Make sure he's..." But she can't finish the end of her sentence, because she isn't really sure what Harry's supposed to be at the moment.

As she gets to her feet, Leo grabs her hand. His action causes her sleeve to ride up slightly, and his eyes narrow as they focus on the light red marks around her wrist. "Are you sure you're up to that?" he asks, concern ingrained in his voice. "We can switch, I can watch him for a while?"

While the offer is tempting, Nikki knows better than to accept it. Something in her knows that Harry wouldn't want to wake to Leo's company. "No," she says, with what she hopes is a reassuring smile. "I can handle it."

Leo still doesn't look convinced, but she shakes her sleeve down and goes about wrapping up a couple of slices of toast in a napkin.

"Ring me if you need me," he instructs as she makes to leave, and she promises that she will.

* * *

For the next two days, Harry finds himself trapped in one of those vicious loops that the universe likes to inflict on the less fortunate. He's on the brink of exhaustion and desperately craves sleep, and yet when he does lose consciousness vivid and all-too-real nightmares prevent him from dwelling there long. This happens constantly with no reprieve, until he's frustrated and tired and ill.

His thoughts become muddled, his sleep-deprived mind struggling to form even simple sentences. He shouts when he means to whisper, he forgets simple things like the answer to 'are you hungry?' and sometimes he can't remember where he is.

Mostly, he just feels numb. He doesn't leave the bed much, let alone the hotel room. Anything that requires movement is effort, and causes the bullet hole in his leg to ache painfully. There was an occasion where Leo had come to try and get him up and mobile (Harry suspects because he wants to go back to England) and from nowhere, Harry's fist connected with Leo's jaw. There had been a gasp, a small scream, a crunch. But they'd barely registered into Harry's consciousness, and he'd simply rolled over and shut his eyes. A twinge of regret had been present, but what's a twinge of regret to a man consumed with bitter guilt anyway? What are fresh bruises on already beaten knuckles?

Leo had left after that. Something about the Coroner needing him. He got the next plane he could.

This decision doesn't impact Harry much. He hardly notices Leo's absence. There's only one thing he can focus on: Nikki. She is sense where there is none, comfort when he thought all comfort was beyond his grasp. She is solid and warm and soft and _there_. Always there. He craves her touch, her body against his, his fingers in her hair as he _loses_ himself in her so wholly and completely. The clothes barrier fell quickly; he needed _more_. She is resistant and then submissive, firm then gentle, smiles then tears. She is a walking, talking, breathing contradiction, and he doesn't have the will in him to try and figure out what it means. All he knows is that when he's with her, which is pretty much 24/7, everything else seems to recede slightly. Pain and grief and confusion melt away until all he can feel is desire and hunger and satisfaction. Until he feels like maybe he will be okay.

* * *

The sudden departure of Leo hits Nikki very differently, however. She's angry at him for leaving them, for abandoning Harry when he needs him. For running away. They argued before he left, loudly in the hotel reception. She wasn't going to accept Leo's bullshit excuse that the Lyell needed him more than Harry did. That Harry had her, and clearly didn't want Leo around. And if a part of her knew this was true, she didn't let on. _What about me_, she had screamed,_ I need you_. Because she truly did. She was terrified of having no excuse not to be with Harry. Scared not of him, but of herself. Of her apparent lack of self-control, of what their relationship was becoming.

But Leo had simply told her to take as much time as Harry needed before coming back to work, and to call him if there are any problems. And yeah, like that's supposed to make her feel better. She knows only too well how hopeless it feels to be hundreds of miles away in a tiny office at the end of a telephone.

Which is why she is where she is now. In bed with Harry, his arms wrapped so tightly and protectively around her that she almost sighs in contentment. Almost.

Harry isn't asleep, though he should be seeing as it's nearly three a.m. But she can feel his chest rise and fall with uneven breaths, his fingers twitching unconsciously against her waist, his leg occasionally spasming in pain. Hence why she isn't asleep, either. Because how can she possibly tune out and ignore him, when she knows that he is in such a state of discomfort?

So they lie there, entwined and resting, until Harry clears his throat. He's going to say something, she can practically hear the effort it's taking for him to put the words together in his head. He hasn't spoken for nearly three days. Nor has she, really. Words have been redundant. It's strange, how quickly she attuned to his needs - or maybe, if you think about it, it's not strange at all.

"Thank you," he says eventually, his voice gravelly and rough, juxtaposed against his words. "For not leaving me."

And she's overcome with such a rush of affection that it makes her eyes sting. Now, pay attention readers, because this is important. In that quiet moment, on the brink of the third day, it is not Harry who initiates the kiss.

For the first time, it is Nikki.

And that changes everything.

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**_Hmm. I think this fic might actually get a little better before it gets worse. Not much better, but still. A little. I'm having far too much fun torturing you all with the angst. _**

**_Let me know what you think. :)_**


	3. iii

_Bet you thought I'd forgotten all about this, didn't you? I haven't, I've just been insanely busy. But here's a mega long chapter jam-packed with confused Harry feelings for you. _

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**iii.**

Things change on the third day. Not majorly; there are no breakthroughs or realisations. It's just a slight shift, and it happened the second Nikki pressed her lips to Harry's at three in the morning. From then on, she stops being so resistant. Harry can feel the change in her; she's softer, more pliant, and it's infinitely sweeter. By the fourth day, it's like she can't remember why this felt wrong in the first place.

Of course, for Harry the awareness of how screwed up this situation is is ever-present. He just can't bring himself to care. He misses Anna, he misses what he never had the chance to have, and he misses feeling happy. And if this thing with Nikki is yet another source of guilt, then good. He deserves to feel like crap. Doesn't mean she does, of course, but he can't allow himself to think like that.

He doesn't really think much at all. It's hard. Everything is tangled in his brain. The thoughts are there, he just can't fathom them into coherent sentences. And so the silence prevails. But it's not uncomfortable. They simply communicate in other ways. With looks and touches. When she forces him to eat, something he has no inclination to do, her big round eyes are gazing at him imploringly. So he takes the food and sips at the water. When she tries to go out to get supplies, he grips her hand so tightly that there's no misinterpreting his feelings, and she waits for him to fall asleep before she leaves.

There are occasions, however, where talking is involved. Mostly on Nikki's part, but still. She tells him stories. Whenever he feels himself starting to go a little crazy in his own brain, she's there talking to him. Softly, curled against his side or sitting next to him as he tries desperately to sleep. Or when he's showering and she perches on the closed toilet lid. Or when he's prodding at soggy cornflakes and she watches to make sure he eats them all.

The first story she tells happens just after breakfast on day three. Harry awakens a little after eight and she isn't there. It's just him, on his own. An empty room. Straight away he begins to panic. His chest tightens, his breathing quickens, and he feels sick to his stomach. Briefly, he realises that he may be having a mild panic attack and feels slightly ashamed at how _weak_ he's being. When did he turn into such a _mess_? But he's disoriented and confused and is just considering whether to curl up and bury himself under the duvet or leave the room in search of her when she comes back, a carrier bag in her hand. It only takes one glance at him for her to realise what happened. She sighs with mingled apology and sympathy, dropping the bag on the table and heading straight for him. He grasps her hand and holds her close, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist, and if he could think of a way to say _don't ever do that to me again_ without sounding needy and pathetic he would say it. Instead he just hugs her a little tighter.

Nikki gently strokes his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, and settles back with him against the headboard. It's such a motherly thing to do, so different from how they've been touching lately, that he isn't sure how to act. His body goes stiff and taut, but when she begins to talk, he slowly starts to relax.

"Do you remember that Institute Dinner we went to a few years ago? I was a brunette at the time. I wore that red dress…"

Of course he remembers the red dress.

"Anyway," she continues softly. "We were running late and we walked in right in the middle of Professor Jefferson's speech, and we had to find our way to our table on the other side of the room in the semi-dark. And I tripped over the strap of that woman's handbag, and she tutted at me really loudly, like it was _my fault_ it was sticking out from under her chair. And then we eventually found our seats, at the most boring table there was, with some of the stuffiest people on the planet, and your mobile rang. Loudly. And your ringtone was – oh god, what was it?"

He feels the corner of his lips twitch. "AC/DC," he supplies hoarsely.

"Yes! AC/DC, _You Shook Me All Night Long_. It was your default for the girls you met in bars. So basically your booty call ruined poor Professor Jefferson's speech." She giggles quietly. When he realises that his panic attack has abated, Harry shifts up the bed and lifts his arm so that she can slip under it, reversing their positions.

"Of course, everyone pretty much ignored us for the rest of the evening, which we were perfectly okay with," she laughs (and if she realises that it's the first time she's laughed since Harry left London she doesn't say anything), "because we had the open bar to keep us company. I was going through my pina colada phase and we were … happy about something, because we kept acting like children. It was when we snuck out of the hall to have a nose around the rest of the building that I accidentally splashed my drink on your shirt."

She pauses and places her forefinger gently on his t-shirt clad chest, where she remembers the bright yellow stain seeping across the crisp white fabric.

"We got a taxi home then," she resumes. "Too tipsy to not make fools of ourselves even further. You got out of the cab and walked me to my door – and you leaned in and for a moment I thought ... this is it, he's going to kiss me."

Harry remembers it vividly. Standing in the cold on her doorstep, her hands on his stomach as she giggled into his chest, and then she had looked up and – "I thought I was going to kiss you, too," he says, and it's the most words he's said in days. Nikki looks up at him with a gentle smile.

"But you didn't. Well, not really. Your lips brushed my forehead and then that was it. A quick 'goodnight' and you were gone."

They fall into silence, and Nikki realises that he seems more responsive than he has done since they got him back. It's distraction, that's what he needs. Something to keep him focused and grounded. Her eyes dart towards the bag she dumped on the table and thinks about the food she bought. Knowing she may be pushing her luck, she asks quietly, "Ready to eat something?"

For a second Harry doesn't say anything, and she wonders if he's already slunk back into his own head. But then he looks up at her, as if he's made a life-changing decision, and nods. "Yeah."

Relief sweeps over her and it's all she can do not to cry out. Finally, it feels like they might be making headway. After that, she tells him stories a lot. Whenever he gets that look in his eyes, that look which means 'I'm drifting away and picturing horrible things and you won't be able to snap me out of it', she tells him a story. Or rather, a memory. Usually it's about the two of them; sometimes it's an amusing incident on a case or an anecdote about a detective or a colleague. Sometimes it's about Leo.

It's the end of the fourth day when Harry finally feels able to put into words what it is he's feeling about Leo's departure.

"You shouldn't be mad," he says quietly from where he's prodding at the takeaway noodles Nikki had brought back with her a while ago. She peers at him from over the top of her laptop screen.

"I'm not mad," she smiles, and he realises that she misinterpreted his statement.

"Not with me, with Leo," he corrects, and resists the temptation to add, _you should definitely be mad at me_.

Her lips form a tight line and she looks back down at the screen. The bright artificial light makes her look pale and gaunt. He doesn't like it.

"I'm not," she mutters.

"You are."

"Well, what do you expect, Harry? He abandoned us."

Harry shakes his head, pushing the congealed Chinese food away from him. "No he didn't. I made him go."

The longer he'd thought about how he'd punched Leo, the guiltier Harry had begun to feel. It wasn't that he hadn't cared at the time, just that he'd been too out of it to really realise what he'd done. Hell, it hadn't even really been intentional – more of a reflex. But now that his brain was slightly less scrambled, the glaring remorse of it all had hit him smack in the face with a force enough to rival his own fist.

"He still didn't have to leave," Nikki mumbles mutinously.

It's obvious that she isn't going to be swayed on this, and the five minutes of concentration has given Harry a headache, so he stops thinking about it. Nikki returns to her emails (at least that's what he assumes she's doing) and he takes the opportunity to really properly look at her.

She's so tired. It's noticeable immediately, the bruising shadows under her eyes are dark and prominent and there's a definite droop in her posture. He thinks of the way she's been sitting up through the night with him, only sleeping when he's sleeping, calming his thrashing nightmares, talking to him and forcing him to eat and making sure he's sort of looking after himself. The thoughts make him feel exceptionally vulnerable. And, oh look, there's that guilt again. Because _he_ is doing this to her. _He's_ the one who's bringing her down, making her ill with stress and fatigue.

"Maybe-" he begins, but his voice cracks so he clears his throat and tries again. "Maybe you should book us some flights."

Her eyes widen as she meets his gaze. "Really? You're ready for that?"

He nods, all out of energy for any more verbal conversation today. But he's certain; it's definitely time to go home. Away from Budapest and everything that it represents. He briefly wonders what it will be like to sleep with Nikki in familiar surroundings, in his bed, where in the past he has only ever dreamt (quite literally) of having her, and finds that he shivers even though it's perfectly warm in the room. Yes. Going back to London will be a good thing, he decides (and, spoiler alert, he's wrong. But we'll get to that).

A few minutes later she looks up at him again and says, "Tomorrow, seven-thirty in the evening. Direct flight to Heathrow."

He nods once more. A couple of clicks later and she announces that they're booked. She sighs quietly and closes the laptop before giving him a smile. "Bed?"

She stands and holds out her hand, like it's the most natural thing in the world. It's only then that he realises she's wearing one of his t-shirts. Just his plain grey t-shirt, and a pair of red cotton knickers. He can't be sure why, but the image strikes him quite powerfully. He must have seen her put the items on earlier, but he can't remember doing so. It's such a couple-thing to do, a blatant message on her part that says: 'I'm totally okay with this now', and he's not sure whether the pulse of electricity that throbs through him is guilt, confusion or desire. Or possibly some screwed up combination of all three.

In the end, though, desire comes out on top. Why wouldn't it? He looks at her and he forgets everything. Who he is, where he is, why any of that even matters. It's like his fucked up brain is only able to function on a continuous fucked up loop lately, a loop which tends to follow this basic pattern: most of the time he's fairly compos mentis, pretty much aware of what's going on (which isn't necessarily a good thing, because a functioning psyche means that he feels _everything_), but then the feeling is a bit much and he eventually slips into Crazy Land (which is what the lucid part of his brain has started calling it, because terms like 'psychotic break' and/or 'PTSD' are a little too much to handle right now thankyouverymuch), and then there's _Nikki_. She pulls him out of Crazy Land and through her touch he feels the ground stop swaying underneath him. And so it goes on. Lather, rinse, repeat. Like a broken record.

He realises that he hasn't moved in a while and snaps his attention back to the present. She's still standing there with her hand outstretched, wiggling her fingers as if to say 'well, what are you waiting for?', and it dawns on him that he doesn't know. Which is hardly surprising seeing as his emotions are flip-flopping all over the place lately. So he stands, and before he's even aware of what he's doing, his trembling fingers have fisted in the loose fabric of _his_ t-shirt, knuckles pressing into the soft flesh of her waist, and he's pulling her so hard against his body that she hits him with enough force to send him stumbling backwards into the chair he just vacated.

It occurs to him that he's being a little rough when he hears the reflexive puff of air forced from her lungs, but he swallows it with his mouth regardless until she sags against him with a soft little moan that fucking _does_ things to him. Things it probably shouldn't. Or should. Let's be honest, he doesn't have any intention of stopping.

For Nikki, it's like being kissed by a thunderstorm, all wild and desperate and sweeping. For Harry, it's like he's drowning, being sucked down by a current that threatens to carry him away, and she's the fresh air that he desperately craves. For both of them it's all-consuming; different, somehow, than the last time. On this occasion something in him feels lighter than before, brighter and bolder. Like maybe he's actually _okay_, and _not_ toeing the edge of a precipice, waiting for a particularly strong gust of wind to push him into the abyss of insanity.

As he directs them back onto the untidy bed, shoving the dishevelled bundle of sheets out of the way with one arm, while the other is gripped around her back so tightly that he's practically lifting her off the floor, he comes to look at the situation like this: They have a little under twenty-four hours left in this hotel room, before they have to go home and face Reality again. And he knows, as much as he may wish otherwise, that it's not going to be easy going back to that bitch. So why not make the most of what little time they have left? Twenty blissful uninterrupted hours of forgetting it all.

When he wakes early the next morning a crisp summer dawn is creeping into the room, tendrils of soft golden light curling through the gaps in the curtains and reaching out for him, warm and bright against exposed skin. He shifts from his back to his side, facing the middle of the bed, slowly so as the movement and rustle of duvet won't wake the woman sleeping beside him.

It would be so easy to pretend right now that they're the only two people in existence. So damn easy just to say _fuck you, world_ and stay here forever. Because his eyes rove over Nikki's form, and his heart clenches. Which sounds like something straight out of a Hallmark card and Harry Cunningham, a man of science and reason, does not do sappy - but it's the only way he can describe it. Literally, he looks at her and his chest tightens. An involuntary spasm that's been there far longer than he would care to remember. Usually he can ignore it (he's taught himself well over the years to pretend it doesn't happen every time she walks into a goddamn room) but today he allows it, basks in it.

Because _Jesus Christ_, Anna died less than a week ago and here he is already resetting to default and staring at his best friend (and wow, a shrink would have an absolute field day if he allowed one within ten feet of himself). His best friend, who has blossoming purple bruises and fading red marks littering her pale skin; the physical scars of a possessive, desperate act of his mouth. Her blonde hair, so easy to get one's fingers tangled in, he's found, lies haphazardly across the pillow. He resists the temptation to tuck a stray curl behind her ear though he would dearly like to, instead choosing to brush the hair away from her forehead, his touch feather light. She's still wearing his t-shirt and that damn underwear, and of its own volition his hand slips under the soft grey cotton and comes to rest gently on her hip, his thumb rubbing small circles across her skin. Whether it's this or his staring that wakes her, he can't be sure, but the next thing he knows she's blinking blearily, inhaling deeply. Her eyes catch his and she smiles. Her lips are still slightly swollen, her pupils blown as they adjust to the daylight, her body soft and warm and relaxed as she instinctively curls a little closer to him. In short, she looks well and truly debauched and perfectly content about it.

And this moment right here? This is where poetry comes from, ladies and gentleman. Poetry and art and bad song lyrics. It comes from 5:47am on a cool summer morning. It comes from post-coital exhaustion. It comes from a nightmare-free sleep and gentle birdsong. It comes from knowing that there's nowhere else you'd rather be. It comes from looking at someone and knowing that there's no one else you'd rather be with.

"Quit _staring_, Harry, it's weird."

It comes from the blink-and-you'll-miss-it tug at the corner of thoroughly-kissed lips and the gentle press of delicate fingertips against a bare chest.

"No nightmares," she whispers, almost as if she doesn't want to attract attention. "Second night in a row."

He nods, incapable of much else, in shock after confronting himself with the veracity and abundance of his brutally-honest (albeit a little pretentious) tidal wave of thoughts. It's almost as if Crazy Place has knocked something loose in Slightly Less Crazy Place, and he has no barrier of self-control and denial anymore. He can't say he's especially pleased.

"Hey," she prompts gently, and he realises he's zoned out again. His eyes blur a little as he tries to focus on her, she's so close. "You with me?"

"Yeah," he nods, and then tries to ensure it stays that way.

"You should get a couple more hours sleep," she suggests. "We've got a long day ahead."

Neither of them need to clarify what she means by this; Harry hasn't set foot outside of the hotel room in four days, and now today he'll not only be doing that, but also then accomplishing the small task of getting on an aeroplane and going home. Which will be no mean feat. He can already feel the uncomfortable prickle of nerves beginning to settle in the pit of his stomach. And, let me tell you, he has every damn reason to regret getting on that plane.

* * *

**_This probably seems really muddled, doesn't it? I know Harry's thoughts are quite contradictory, but I assure you that is intentional. He's not exactly thinking clearly. Anyway, it's all about to fall apart, so..._**

**_I've got a shitload of assignments due for Thursday so this is probably the last you'll see of me until then. But after that I'll have tons more time to work on this, and catch up with everyone else's fics that I've been missing out on, too. _**

**_I hope everyone had a wonderful Easter!_**


	4. iv

_Thanks for the reviews, you guys are literally the greatest. I've upped the rating of this chapter to M, by the way. It's nothing particularly ... explicit, as such, but I felt it was only wise to warn you. _

* * *

**iv.**

Three hours later, at the more reasonable hour of eight-thirty, a shrill ringing of a mobile phone wakes Harry from a blissfully deep and dream-free slumber. He cracks open an eye and watches Nikki's back across the room as she rummages through the pile of clothes on the chair and then in her handbag. "Shit! Where the hell - _shit_. Stupid bloody thing," she grumbles under her breath, eventually plucking her phone from the table beside the laptop with a triumphant, "Aha!"

Somewhat amused, Harry almost forgets what today is and rolls over in a vain attempt to reclaim his sleep. That is, until he zeros in on Nikki's side of the conversation.

"- just after nine, your time. Tonight, yes... I don't know, Leo, I haven't asked!"

Instinctively, Harry feigns sleep as he feels Nikki's eyes burning into the back of his head. Her voice drops to more of a whisper as she continues.

"We've ... managed," she says hesitantly, and he begins to wish he really was asleep. "Of course it hasn't, but at least I didn't run out on him! The only reason he's somewhat sane now is because of me."

Yes, this is definitely a conversation he doesn't want to hear. His two best friends arguing about him. Arguing over him. Like they're his parents and he's a child caught in the tug-of-war of bitter divorce proceedings. Yet another wave of guilt sweeps over him. Unable to listen to any more, for fear of what he might hear, he fakes a yawn and a grumble and shifts under the duvet.

"I've got to go, Leo," Nikki says quickly. "I'll let you know when we land ... No, don't bother, a taxi will be more than sufficient ... Yeah, I'll tell him. Bye."

"Who was that?" Harry asks, and he doesn't have to fake the hoarseness of his voice.

"Leo. He says that he doesn't want you in work for a while, so don't think about turning up tomorrow morning." She must have spotted the crestfallen expression on Harry's face, because she hastily adds, "Oh no, he meant it in a good way. Like, he's concerned about you. That's all. I don't think he holds a grudge about your little fisticuffs incident."

Harry nods, then his eyes land on the suitcases in the corner of the room, suitcases which are going to need to be packed today, and nausea grips his stomach uncomfortably.

The rest of the day passes fairly uneventfully. They successfully repack their bags - well, _Nikki_ repacks their bags. He never has been great at packing, and anyway, his hands were shaking so badly he had to stop after ten minutes. All too soon, it's late in the afternoon and they're doing a last 'do we have everything?' check before leaving their room.

Nikki's standing at the foot of the bed, eyes narrowed as she inspects the area for signs of anything they might have left behind. It strikes him that he's a little upset to see her in something other than his t-shirt. Once they're home, he decides, he'll never let her wear anything else. With this point in mind, he almost aggressively steps up behind her and coils an arm tightly around her waist, leaving her with no option but to stumble back into him.

"Harry..." she murmurs, a reluctant warning, because they have to leave soon.

But he ignores her. Instead, he nudges that sensitive spot behind her ear with his nose, his tongue darting out to trace familiar contours. A gasp escapes her lips and he feels her entire body arch against his. This gives him a strange sense of purpose, and his lips travel a little further down her neck, teeth dragging lightly across her skin. The hand that isn't holding her in place slips underneath her blouse, his fingers dancing across her soft warm flesh, up past her waist, further, further.

"_Fuck_, Harry," she breathes in a rush, as if unable to hold it in any longer. A groan rises in his throat as he sucks at the crook of her neck, all sloppy kisses and panting breaths. When he bites down gently, he feels Nikki sag against him as her knees weaken, and she makes a tiny moan that shouldn't be _allowed_. Unable to help himself, he rolls his hips against the small of her back, a rush of pleasure warming every nerve-ending when he feels her press back.

"We have to go," she grits out.

"I believe we've got seven minutes, actually," he counters gruffly, but when she gasps and her head falls back against his shoulder he wonders if she even heard him.

His hand under her top slips back down, the backs of his fingers trailing over the curve of her hip. They bump on the edge of her jeans and he hooks his index finger into a belt loop, tugging gently, before creeping further around and popping open the button.

"Do it," she growls. And he almost laughs. He kisses her jaw and she twists her head so that their mouths meet. It's a clumsy kiss, loose and wet and open, tongues and teeth clashing. "Please," she breaths against his mouth. "Harry, _please_."

So he does. His fingers slip below rough denim, below soft cotton, and then she's moaning and whispering something nonsensical that he thinks might be a combination of a blaspheme and his name. He nuzzles into her hair, inhaling deeply, and is startled to realise that he's crying. There are tears dribbling down his cheeks, and he doesn't even know why.

He continues his actions, expertly administered, until she's a quivering wreck, her grip on his forearm so tight he's certain her nails have drawn blood. He feels when she hits that crescendo, feels that dizzying rush of pleasure wash over her. She collapses against him with a stuttered breath, his arm the only thing stopping her from falling to the floor.

"God," she murmurs eventually, shakily standing on her own two legs again so she can turn around in his arms. "That was - hey, you okay?"

Concern crinkles her eyes, and he realises he must still be crying.

"Yeah," he mutters, because he really doesn't know where these tears are coming from. It's like he's opened a damn gate or something. So he does the only thing he can think to do and kisses her again. She makes a small noise of surprise but otherwise doesn't protest. Well, not until thirty seconds later.

"Come on," she says, not unkindly, roughly brushing her thumbs across his cheekbones and under his eyes. "We've got a taxi waiting for us outside."

There's more to talk about, he knows, but he's always had shitty timing and this is no exception.

She tries to pull away, but his grip tightens on her hip to the point where it knows it must be painful. "One more," he mumbles. "Please, I need it."

A strange look crosses her face, but he doesn't really have the mental faculty to interpret it. Besides, it's gone as quickly as it arrived and her lips are on his again. It's a slow kiss, shallow, gentle. But it works.

* * *

Outside is ... outside is hard. He'd almost forgotten that there were other people on the planet. A big hustling noisy crowd of chattering human beings, muffled by the roar of vehicles and a distant train and birds whistling and bicycle bells chiming and busy shop fronts and cafes. It's all so _loud_, so overwhelming, like his underused senses are hyperaware of _everything_.

Palms pressed painfully over his ears as they wait on the street for their taxi to arrive and eyes screwed closed against the suddenly blinding sun, Harry realises that he probably looks completely mad. But he can't bring himself to care. It's all so _much_. So much he hasn't had to deal with in days. The last time he was outside, there were police and guns and blood - oh, so much blood.

Soft fingers are scrabbling at his clenched arms and he chances a glance up. Nikki is thrusting something at him, something small and silver, and it takes him longer than it probably should to realise that it's an iPod. Her iPod. She releases his arm and holds out the small headphones to him. Realising what she's suggesting, he shakily puts them in his ears.

"I doubt it will match your standards," she quips lightly, passing him the device. "But I know there's stuff on there that you like. Just ... focus on the songs, okay?"

He nods mutely, but is distracted by it long enough for Nikki to bundle him into a mercifully quiet taxi a few minutes later, where he feels infinitely better and hands the iPod back to her with a small "thanks" and a gentle hand squeeze.

"Not a problem," she smiles, and he realises that she genuinely means it - and that maybe it extends to beyond just the ten minute loan of her iPod.

"Last time..." she begins, after a few minutes of silence, then stops abruptly.

"Last time, what?" he prompts, though there's an unsettled sensation in his gut that tells him he might not want to know.

She takes a deep breath and tries again, her words rushing out in one breath as if that would make it less painful for both of them. "Last time I was sitting in a taxi like this I didn't think I was ever going to see you again."

Yep, he didn't want to know. He turns away from her, sinking down into his seat, staring at the grey-and-green world flashing past outside the window.

* * *

By the time they get to the airport, Harry's feeling sick. That sort of deep in your stomach sick that won't go away, no matter how much you may will it to. So as soon as they've checked in and they're waiting in the departure lounge, he practically sprints to the bathroom and shoves two fingers down the back of his throat, anything to get rid of the nausea.

It works, for the most part. He does feel better after voiding his stomach of its contents, but his throat feels raw and his mouth downright disgusting. Getting to his feet with a sigh, he flushes the toilet and exits the cubicle, crossing to the sinks and pressing his palms against the counter. There's a man washing his hands beside him, who chuckles uncomfortably and says, "You all right, mate? Nervous flier?"

Harry simply nods (and wow, he's been doing a lot of that lately) as the man shakes his hands free of drips before wiping them on his trousers. "Safe flight, man," he says as he tugs open the door, but the words don't register in Harry's brain until he's alone again.

He pushes the tap until freezing water gushes out. First he rinses his mouth a couple of times, though the water does little to mask the acidic taste coating his tongue and teeth, then he scoops a handful of the icy liquid and splashes it over his warm face.

A gasp escapes his lips on instinct, but he quickly recovers and repeats the action a couple of times, before grabbing a handful of paper towels and patting his skin dry.

The whole process has worked, and he feels a lot less ill as he finally heads back to Nikki. She's in the same seat as he left her in, and despite his lack of explanation she seems to know exactly where he's been. As he collapses into the chair beside her with a weak groan, she digs around in her pocket and holds out a small blue packet. "Softmint?"

He tries to smile and takes one, chewing on it thoughtfully for a little while.

"Well, you don't look green anymore," she says lightly, her eyes flicking to the departure board where their flight is, currently, scheduled to be on time.

"Sorry," he mumbles, but her sharp 'tsk' in response startles him a little.

"Stop apologising," she scolds. "I don't know what you think you've done wrong, but I assure you, you haven't."

"Sorry," he says again and she glares at him, but her face relaxes when she sees the teasing smile tugging at his lips.

They fall into a companionable silence for a few minutes, but silence is dangerous because it allows Harry to be alone with his thoughts, and if there's one thing he shouldn't be allowed to do at the moment, it's dwell on his adventures in Crazy Land.

"Is it wrong of me that I don't want to go home?" he mutters eventually, his eyes fixed on his hands folded in his lap.

"No, of course not," Nikki says gently. "It's perfectly understandable."

"Is it?" he quizzes. "Because it seems ridiculous. I know we have to get back to London, that I need to be home to get my life in order again, but..."

"Harry, it's natural that you want to stay here," she interrupts, her voice soft. "You feel closer to Anna here. It's where you met, where you spent your last hours together. Of course you want to stay, cling on to that. Anyone would be reluctant to let it go."

This surprises him, because it's so far from what he'd been thinking. Anna hadn't even entered his brain, which in itself causes him to feel another painful stab of guilt. But it hadn't been her at all that he'd wanted to stay and cling on to. Maybe it should have been, but it wasn't (he doesn't realise yet that the memory of Anna is what he's running away from). He daren't say anything though, because clearly what he actually wants to stay for is the _wrong_ thing, and he doesn't want Nikki giving him another one of those worried little looks.

"Yeah," he mumbles instead. "I suppose."

They board their plane fifteen minutes later and he curls up in the window seat as much as his long legs will allow, fully intent on getting through this two and a half hour journey by sleeping through it.

"Do you want my iPod again once we're up the air?" Nikki asks, glancing at him briefly as she buckles her seatbelt.

"And listen to all your chick-flick music and power ballads?" he smirks. "No thanks."

A broad smile graces Nikki's lips and he realises that it's a smile he hasn't seen enough recently. He should probably do something about that. Maybe.

With a huff, a large on-the-wrong-side-of-middle-aged man flops into the seat on Nikki's other side. Harry doesn't pay him much attention, until the man pulls a newspaper out of his carry-on. A newspaper which he opens, clearly to where he'd paused reading it to board the plane, and folds in half. It's when he does this that Harry sees Anna's face. A small photograph, in the bottom corner of the page, clearly accompanying an update on the case.

It's almost shocking, how powerfully the wave of grief hits him, and how long it takes to subside. Maybe Anna's intentions hadn't been entirely honest, and maybe she'd asked a little much of him, but for a short while he had truly believed that he could love her.

He thinks of the evening on the roof, before - everything. When it had just been the two of them, wrapped up in each other. She had been carrying his baby then, and he'd had no idea.

(God, he wishes more than anything that he'd taken advantage of the airport bar before they boarded.)

If Harry has ever pondered the 'when does life start?' debate, he's certain of his stance now. Life starts with the first breath of air. He can't allow himself to believe that it starts at conception any more, he _can't (_spoiler alert: he does_)_. Because that would mean facing the fact that he lost not only the woman he was sort of considering spending a long time with, but his child. A little part of him. _No_. He's seen embryos at eight weeks; a bunch of cells. A peanut sized nothing.

Tears smarting, he turns away from Nikki and stares out of the small window, down the wing at the airport beyond.

He wonders if he'd had a boy or a girl. He likes to think it would have been a girl. Her hair would have been dark, certainly. Long and soft. And her eyes, maybe she'd have had his green eyes. Hopefully Anna's nose, and Anna's gentleness. Anna's passion and determination. But he'd have taught his daughter all about aeroplanes, and taken her to the museum on a Sunday and showed her dinosaurs and volcanoes. They'd go to the park in the autumn and he'd show her how to play conkers, then push her so high on the swing that she'd scream for him, wild exhilaration on her delicate features. Then they'd go home, where Anna would be waiting with some kind of hot stew, and they'd show her the collage they'd made out of autumnal leaves. She would be exhausted when he tucked her into bed that evening, lying beside her and whispering a story about the moon and stars and everything beautiful in the world. She'd fall asleep curled in his arms, of course, and he might even stay there himself, until Anna comes in to gently prise them apart and drag him to bed.

Suddenly, the peanut sized bunch of cells doesn't seem so insignificant.

He loses himself in these bittersweet fantasies until they land at Heathrow with a bump and a squeal of rubber on tarmac. Nikki's worried, he knows. He can hear her trying to get through to him, and it's possible that she's the one shaking his shoulder, but Nikki means reality and it's far nicer in Crazy Land with his imaginary daughter.

Eventually, he concedes that he's going to have to at least get off the plane. He drags himself back to the present, and yep, he was right to be reluctant. It's dull and grey here, as opposed to the bright beautiful colours of Crazy Land, and everything in him aches. But the look of sheer fright on Nikki's face keeps him grounded. As does the concerned expression from one of the cabin crew heading their way.

"For god's sake, Harry," Nikki sighs in combined relief and fear. "I thought you were having a seizure or something."

He mumbles something that he wants to be an apology, but he's not sure if it was even audible.

"Come on," she says gently, taking his hand. "Let's get home, shall we?"

He pretty much lets her guide him off the plane and out of the airport. He'd garnered some suspicious looks at security, but Nikki had merely said that he was a nervous flier and relieved to be down on solid ground again. A lot of people have thought he had a phobia of planes today.

It's only a short taxi ride from Heathrow to his apartment, and normally he'd be relieved to be home again. This had seemed like such a good idea when he'd told Nikki to book flights back in their hotel room. But now he can only desperately wish to be back there, holed up in that little room, curled up with Nikki.

His apartment has that musty smell that comes from not being lived in for a fortnight. There are plants withering and browning on his desk, and he almost laughs when he realises that they look a bit like he feels.

The first place he goes after dropping his bag in the hallway is the kitchen, where he pours himself a few fingers of scotch. It's his go-to liqueur for those 'I need to forget' times, and Nikki knows this but she doesn't stop him. When he hears her enter the kitchen behind him, her heels noisy on his tiled floor, he is almost scared to look at her.

"I'm going give your mum a ring, let her know we're home, and then tidy up a bit," she says quietly, reaching into the cupboard where he keeps his cleaning stuff. She extracts a cloth and some furniture polish. "Get rid of the dust, open a few windows, change the sheets," she lists, almost absent-mindedly.

"You don't have to," he protests weakly, but he knows it needs doing and it's not like he's in any state to. He can already feel the alcohol beginning to buzz through his veins, and he relishes the sensation and downs another glass.

"It's all right," she says, casting an apprehensive glance at the bottle by his side, and disappears.

He doesn't move. His feet feel heavier than stone. All he can do is stand there and refill his glass too many times, until he feels woozy and numb. It doesn't take long. He's drinking on an empty stomach, which has always been a recipe for disaster. By the time Nikki comes back into the kitchen, he's relying on the fridge to stand up straight.

"Harry..." she begins, in that tone of voice that she reserves for when he's being unreasonable. Which, to be quite honest, he finds a little insulting.

"What?" he snaps.

She sighs for what seems like the hundredth time. "Can you not – _drink_?"

He snorts humorlessly and doesn't say anything, simply chooses to obnoxiously swallow another mouthful of scotch.

"_Harry_," she says again, more vehemently. "Please. This isn't going to help. Drinking it all away doesn't solve anything. All you're going to achieve is an almighty hangover in the morning."

"Good."

With a frustrated huff, Nikki folds her arms tightly across her chest and glares at him. They've reached an impasse; neither one of them is going to back down on this. But hey, he's the one with the dead girlfriend, he figures that's got to count for something. Dead baby, too.

A sudden crease appears in his brow as he asks, "Do you think it would have been a girl or a boy?"

"I – what?"

"My unborn kid. Girl or boy?" he asks again, crassly.

There are tears in Nikki's wide, shocked eyes. "I don't…"

"It's all right," he shrugs, though really, it isn't all right at all. "I was just wondering."

Nikki swallows hard, and he watches her shaking hands as they come forward and lightly clasp his wrist, preventing him from raising the cup to his lips again.

"Let's just go to bed," she whispers, all anger apparently forgotten. This time, he allows her to take control, to lead him away from the kitchen, through his cold apartment, and into the bedroom. And later, when his arms are wrapped around her and he's pretending to be asleep, he realises something. Something that _is_ life-changing and monumental and everything else. Something that he vaguely remembers doing, under the haze of adrenaline and his fight-or-flight response. It's faint, but he can feel the plastic petrol can under his fingers, hear the thud of bone on metal, the crack of a gunshot. The memory, the realisation, is all-consuming and sickening and knocks him back about three figurative paces, as if someone's caught him in the stomach with a sledgehammer.

One week ago, he killed a man.

* * *

**_So yeah. They're home. And it really only gets more angsty from here on in. _**

**_In other news ... I've kinda started working on an AU Silent Witness fic, and I was wondering how you guys felt about AU fics? I don't want to say too much about it because it's still in the planning stages, but it's Harry/Nikki and many other recognisable characters, and it's NOT school or college or anything like that. They're adults, but it's about as far away from the Lyell Centre as you can get. It almost has a rom-com but with a bit more angst sort of feel to it. _**

**_I don't know. I've never been a fan of AU fics at all, but I had this idea bugging me and started to tentatively write it and ... I think it could work. I just miss old SW so much, and hate the lack of closure we've been given, and I think this is how I'm channelling my pain. _**

**_So yeah, let me know if you'd be interested in reading it (I know I've been really vague with the plot, I'm sorry) and maybe I'll knuckle down and really start working on it properly. Doesn't mean I'll abandon this one, of course! Chapter five should appear in a few days. _**

**_Charlotte x_**


End file.
